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It is hard to believe that such peaceful place of quiet beauty can swallow a life. A hot July day, the first of the school holidays and youngsters kicking up their heels, their lives and the long lazy days of Summer stretching ahead of them. They could never have foreseen that the day would end in tragedy, with a 15 year old lad losing his life beneath the surface of this river. Today, four years on, I watch from a distance as they gather around his grave, my heart heavy for their grieving.

I can never forget. Days into my curacy, I was pitched headlong into this unfolding drama of loss almost from the first moments. Racing to the scene, talking to traumatised youngsters and worried villagers as we waited the many hours until the emergency services found and recovered his body. From the television interview to the funeral and beyond into the weeks, months and years of heartbreak and adjustment to loss that followed, it was my tender privilege to travel with the family and the community. The sudden tragic death of a teenager inevitably causes profound shock waves not unlike a major earthquake within the microcosms of family, village and school. Life can never be the same. It can only be slowly and painfully rebuilt.

How I wish this was a rare, exceptional event, as no family should have to face this horror. Alas my heightened sensitivity has zeroed in on news reports over and over each summer of young lives lost by drowning. Innocent fun turning fatal in the blink of an eye. Over sixty children lose their lives in this way each year in the UK, and is the third largest cause of child deaths. In the last few weeks I have heard of at least four, one only yesterday. Five years old.

Sudden death of any cause has the same seismic effects on hearts and lives. Every day it seems we wake up to hear of yet more horrors and violent atrocities with communities and families ripped apart by terrorism and hate crimes. Each candle burning, each flower laid representing a precious individual gone from the lives of those who loved them. Grief that will go on – long long after the news focus has moved on. Worlds turned upside down. It is hard not to be overwhelmed by the darkness.

One of the most famous prophetic descriptions of Jesus comes from Isaiah 53, describing him as ‘A man of sorrows and acquainted with grief‘. At its simplest, and from personal experience I know this to mean Love that sits with us in the dark. The darkness of grief and the darkness of unknowing. Watching, waiting, keeping vigil. Nail-pierced hands that hold ours. Tears that fall from God’s face.

Three years ago today, on the first anniversary of this young man’s death, I came across a timely prayer poem that spoke deeply to me and I offer it here. It turns out they are the lyrics to a song on an album called Take Heart by Velma Frye, co written with Macrina Wiederkehr.

LEANING INTO DARKNESS (M. Wiederkehr, V. Frye)

Draw me into the depths. Take me down to the holy darkness to Love’s roots.I lean into that darkness,The darkness that surrounds me, This nurturing room for my restless spirit.

Let me borrow your eyes, Beloved. Then I shall see in the dark, though for answers I do not look.It is enough to wait, To wait in the holy darkness,This nurturing womb for Love’s yearning.

Listening to the sound of silence,And leaning into the song of darkness, I wait for You.Waiting with purpose for who I will become,Waiting without agenda for things I can not change,I become one with the One I love,

For I have seen too many stars,Too many stars to let the darkness overwhelm me.

I keep vigil: with my heart’s eternal questions, and with my deep longings.with those places in my being where the light has grown dim. with those whose hearts are tired, & with those whose hope is lost.for those who sleep and for those who can not rest.for those with fearful hearts, and for those whose hearts are angry.for those whose courage is waning and for those whose strength is growing.for those who suffer, and for those who keep vigil.

I keep vigil. I keep vigil. I keep vigil. I keep vigil,

For I have seen too many stars,Too many stars to let the darkness overwhelm me

I am always so grateful for the gift of words or art that others offer, putting pain, blessing and healing into words or form that speak in a profound way. These gifts are often costly, self-sacrificial baring of souls. Someone who frequently does this for me is fellow priest, author and artist Jan Richardson who blogs at The Painted Prayerbook. Her latest post, A Blessing when The World is Ending, from her book Circle of Grace (which I can highly recommend along with her other work) seems to dovetail beautifully with the lyrics above.

A blessing for a Sunday night, or a Monday morning, whatever faces you this week or has been in the week just closed. A blessing for those I know and love, and those who may have stumbled upon this looking for something else. Shortly before his sudden unexpected death in 2008 aged 52, John O Donohue recited his poem Beannacht, during an interview. I had the privilege of meeting him at Greenbelt Festival in the year or two before this, having long been captured by his writings. In his family’s own words:

“John had an amazing intellect which could never allow itself to become a prisoner of its own `ivory tower`. He had a beautiful, wild soul that he showered with love and attention. All of this, together with his great respect for language as expression and his sensitive eye led him on the journey towards poetry as being his best-loved medium of expression and conversation. I think that ‘poetry’ must have been very frustrated at all the time he spent under the spell of Theology and Philosophy!! Poetry was an impatiently awaiting vehicle eager to transport his fluency out to starved ears.“

He served as a catholic priest for most of his adult life At the end of 2000, John retired from public priestly ministry and devoted himself full-time to his writing and to a more public life of integrity in action – speaking, advocating against social injustice, and inspiring the wealthy and powerful in society to engage their own integrity in service of meaningful, positive change. He is certainly someone I can say ( and many others will agree) whose ‘life was an inspiration, and whose memory a benediction’.

Beannacht

for Josie, my motherOn the day whenthe weight deadenson your shouldersand you stumble,may the clay danceto balance you.And when your eyesfreeze behindthe grey windowand the ghost of lossgets into you,may a flock of colours,indigo, red, greenand azure bluecome to awaken in youa meadow of delight.When the canvas frays in the currach of thoughtand a stain of oceanblackens beneath you,may there come across the watersa path of yellow moonlightto bring you safely home. May the nourishment of the earth be yours,may the clarity of the light be yours,may the fluency of the ocean be yours,may the protection of the ancestors be yours.And so may a slow wind work these wordsof love around you,an invisible cloakto mind your life.

This poem can be found under the title Blessing for the New Year, in his book, Bless the space Between U s available in the USA, or in the book Echoes of Memory available in Europe/UK.